A Desirable Madness
by KatxValentine
Summary: Andrea Sachs and her big, stupid, naïve, moronic, sweet brown eyes. Andy's resignation leaves a restlessly irate Miranda determined to sort out her thoughts, whether it be by pursuit or otherwise. Andy swears it's becoming a twisted form of courtship.
1. Pursuit

Miranda Priestly felt it nag in unpleasant ways all around her pleasantly styled head. Andrea's leave left her calm, yes, left her trying to find an assistant just as charmingly erred as the brunette, but one thought wouldn't just leave her be.

Assistants came and assistants went, but when assistants went—

She couldn't chase the look on Andrea Sachs' face from her mind. Floating around desperately, screeching to Miranda about incompetent Jacqueline…

…and those big, dark eyes, all doe-worthy and warm, glinting with the floundering need to _help_ Miranda Priestly.

The silver-haired editor's insides turned with rage at the memory. Her lips pursed together tightly; pinched into a thin, set line. She was displeased, of course, not by the fact that Andrea was determined to renew her faith in the human race, but by the fact that the expression she'd never forget was the kind that dared to hint toward the thawing of Miranda's ice-heart.

Let it be known that Miranda Priestly's frigid coronary organ melted for _no one._

All she knew was that her hands were curled into white-knuckled fists and they lie against the cold wood of her desk. Her pale blue eyes were affixed on her own trembling digits, and she couldn't suppress the slight, hardly noticeable flinch developing in her right eye.

Andrea Sachs. Andrea Sachs and her _big, stupid, naïve, moronic, sweet brown eyes._

Andrea Sachs, who thought she could slip away unnoticed after frantically _caring_ for Miranda. It wasn't the subject of human emotion (but oh, no, god _forbid)_ that enraged Miranda, but more that it implied _pity_. It implied pity for, even worse, the weakness that was further implied. Andrea had thought she needed someone to swoop in and _assist_ her. Miranda prided herself in the thought that assistants were people who she ran like the queen in a hive; not people who really _aided _her.

The thought was enough to make her toes curl within her patent-leather Manolo Blahniks.

And Miranda Priestly was not okay with that.

"Emily." Miranda always spoke with the softest, calmest edge; that way if Emily didn't hear her, it was just so much easier to be upset with her for 'not doing her job'. It was maddening, the ways she plotted to release her frustration.

However, Emily so happened to be clacking her way past and paused. The usual pallid flush of the features occurred, and the devil herself just arched a peppery eyebrow to speak delicately, "Get me Andrea Sachs on the phone."

Emily visibly seemed to sag at that, but her twitchy nature didn't take a back-seat to her unease. "We no longer have her number, M—"

"Then _find it."_

Emily's eyes widened, and she skittered away unsurely to flip through the yellow pages. She knew vividly that there would be a thousand Andrea Sachses just dawdling through the pages, and Emily had never been surer that her career was coming to a swift close.

Miranda Priestly pursed her lips again, and casually slid her thick-rimmed, black Dior reading glasses from her eyes. Her gaze narrowed dangerously, and she found she was gripping at her desk again. Her lips had formed something of a curved scowl.

This wouldn't do at all. This thought was vital.

She'd need to discuss with her former assistant.


	2. Jules

By the time Emily had _finally_ succeeded in dragging Andrea down and on the phone, Miranda was devising a scheme. Of course, this elaborate little idea would put the editor-in-chief in a few positions and places she didn't want to be, but, unfortunately, she'd have to be a proper chameleon, this time, and mold to suit the situation.

Of course she couldn't be seen with Andrea in any reputable place among any reputable public, because that would make people think she was going _soft_ by associating with those she didn't employ—like _friends._ The word left a repulsive aftertaste in her mouth. It was like drinking cheap wine.

Jules, Emily second-in-command and Miranda's newest head-ache, was clacking away at the keyboard. She was a miserably small creature with untamable black curls and tolerable-to-good taste in heels. However, the single time Miranda had seen her in 'casual attire' all those decent thoughts had gone down the drain. She learnt the girl had a penchant for super-hero t-shirts and once had the audacity to show up in a…

--Miranda's eyebrow arched, suddenly—

…hooded sweatshirt-type-thing with a bat insignia across the chest.

She had it all planned out, now. She would 'borrow' the repulsive grey blob of material (a few days in advance, to thoroughly clean it, of course) and, incognito, she would make reservations for some back-woods café in, say, the West Village where no one would _ever_ see her. Genius, Priestly, divine!

Buying a whole other outfit was just out of the question. What if she was _witnessed_ buying a sweatshirt? _Runway_ would writhe in agony.

Jules' name was, of course, _not_ Jules, but she preferred it to Julia. Miranda absolutely refused to refer to her as 'Jules', dismissing it, mentally, as a stage-name used by a stripper. The twenty-something year old underling did most of the gopher work and left the 'smart people job' to Emily, who Miranda was convinced _still_ wasn't the right caliber of 'smart' for the job. The point was, Julie had been hired because it was rumored she could take mental notes like there was a PC installed in her head, and her untouchably optimistic attitude meant Miranda could kick her around all she liked and never worry about it 'damaging her ego'. Plus, the first time she'd wandered in for an interview she'd been wearing the Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes most considered an 'urban show legend'. If there was one thing the very petite assistant had decent taste in, it was certainly shoes.

"Julie-_uh_." Miranda had breathed, exasperatedly, and the hazel-eyed ball of stupid-bounce skittered to her doorway. She was all smiles, as always, and Miranda remembered how irritating youth could be, "Inform Emily to pass on to Andrea that we will be having dinner on Thursday at The Elephant Castle. Explain that she should take the subway to Saint Vincent's hospital in the West Village and plod her undoubtedly heavier self up the block to the right side of the hospital. The restaurant is _right there_ and dinner will be at eight o'clock sharp, no later. Should she arrive at eight-oh-one, I shall refuse dinner altogether."

When Miranda used that tone, the case was closed, and in her whip-turn to escape from the frame Jules had managed to smack her forehead with a resounding crash of a nose. Miranda only rolled her translucently blue eyes, and waited patiently for Andrea's inevitable complaint. This girl was certainly not Andrea. Hell, she was barely a Moneypenny. Three. Two. O—

"Miranda can_not_ speak with you, Andrea, she's _very_ busy. Well, what makes you thi—no, she can do whatever she likes, and in this instance she would very much like it if—Julia!" Another crash of a noise. It appeared as though the twenty-somewhat had smashed her knee on her own desk, "Julia, you _bloody git_, tell Miranda Andrea wishes to speak with her."

Breathless, the moron jittered to the desk and timidly squeaked, "Andrea wants to talk to you."

"Inform Emily so as she may inform Andrea that I am currently away from my desk and cannot be reached. Reservations have been made, and I am positively _dying_ of excitement to be graced by her presence. She can_not_ disappoint me."

"Got it, can't disappoint." A pause, a breath—Miranda waited, but to her dismay Thing Two didn't receive more cranial damage, "Emily! Miranda told me to tell you before she left her desk that it's been set up and nothing can be done and she's very enthused to see Andrea so--"

Emily simply mouthed the words, "I _heard_, idiot" to Julia, and the intimidated girl hunkered down a little shamefully. She was just doing her job, wasn't she? This career was entirely impossible.

Miranda Priestly turned her chair, back facing the door, and smirked casually down toward the city. Her eyes gleamed cheekily, and she let out a throaty, pleased "Hmm..." of a sound.

The queen had moved and it was the pawn's turn, now.

In the end, Miranda Priestly _knew_ she would win.


	3. Of Batman Hoodies and Burberry

"Julie-_uh,_" Julia could undeniably vouch for the fact that she hated how Miranda Priestly seemed to stress that last syllable _just_ to irritate her. She didn't hate much, there were few things she even agreed to be negative about, but the editor-in-chief she was privy to all day took up all the space on her hatred wall.

Regardless, her smile didn't move. "What is it I can do for you?"

"That repulsive scrap of fabric you wear, the one I've seen you stuff into your sinfully out-of-date Chanel purse, I'll need to use it for my dinner with Andrea." Jules was suddenly confused. What? When had Miranda even _seen_ her bag? Emily demanded she keep it forced under her desk at _all_ times. "Well—do not stand there all day in the shoes you don't deserve to wear. Go. _Go."_

Miranda's tone was always soft when she wanted something done _right_ then and there.

"My Batman hoodie? Oh—of course you can borrow it." The good-natured bounce in her step was answered only by Miranda's casual scowl. She wasn't at all keen on this girl, but Miranda's own personal game of wound-the-self-esteem was becoming addictive, and it was all the more fun when the other person didn't seem to respond. Deep down inside she was sure Julia Vanderbilt from Upstate New York with a degree from FIT and top-grade math scores was killing herself.

When her dark-haired assistant ambled in with the bundle of grey in her arms, Miranda just waved her off and peered down the tip of her nose, her eyes crinkling with the distasteful expression just at the corners, "Tell Emily to have it sent to the dry cleaners and thoroughly cleansed. It probably reeks of _Burberry."_

Julia blinked. _Burberry? _Her perfume was _Gucci, _but—

"_Why_ do you believe it part of your job to just stand around like a _zombie? Go."_

All the pieces were falling into place just as Miranda had liked. She'd even the score with Andy, and then life would be able to continue. But why did it nag so at her insides that she hadn't declared a win?

Once she had one last show-down with her former assistant (current object of distaste), it could be laid to rest. Yes, that was it.

She pulled her Fendi glasses from her pale skin, and found herself uncharacteristically nibbling at the tip of the arm, almost chewing her own lip in the process.

Uncharacteristic, once again (and one of the rare times Miranda mentally scolded herself) was the moment Julia burst in half-frantic to say that the Dior fall collection had been delayed and oh, _oh_ what_ever_ would they do, she almost jumped out of her chair. She collected herself swiftly and, with nothing but a steel-laden gaze, snapped that Julia was nothing but an incompetent imbecile and should learn to remedy things herself, for once.

(Thursday, six-thirty p.m.)

Miranda was prepped and set for her 'adventure'. She felt far too small within the confines of the 'Batman' hoodie, which felt awkward over her classic Chanel suit and, she was sure, awkward over _anything at all._ She wouldn't guiltily admit that there was a warm-fuzzy-fluffy-feeling to being encased in a cocoon-like wrapping. Maybe she would tell Julia she incidentally mistook it for rubbish and trashed it. It would be a simple lie, and she could wear the thing around her own home. The twins wouldn't mind, and Julia would never know it was there. She'd sooner throw herself into traffic in a pair of _Keds_ before allowing Julia the duties attached to The Book. Every time she even thought of the girl in her house, she imagined her destroying her favorite Faberge vase after tripping over the pretty, mahogany side-table and spilling her blood via jaw injury all over her lovely sitting room.

Julia was _definitely_ not _ever_ delivering The Book.

"Roy's downstairs waiting, 'Randa—"

A pause. Suddenly, the editor had turned, and her eyes were a glacial shade so cold it was enough to freeze the marrow in her bones halfway to dead. As she slipped the pair of tan, single-lens'd _Prada_ sunglasses stealthily onto her features, Miranda Priestly murmured frostily, "There is an 'm' and an 'I' as well within my name. It is within your best interests, I believe, _Julia_, to make good use of _both_ those letters."

Julia's blood may as well have been intravenously hooked up to the North Pole. Miranda was out in moments.

(Thursday, seven-forty-five p.m.)

Miranda was mildly perturbed when she'd stepped out of the car and a gaggle of teenage hoodlums wandering with excessively baggy jeans had decided to refer to her as something called a 'Kadaj' after they eagerly chattered about her 'silver hair'. She had no idea what kind of drug they were all, quite obviously, on.

When she'd stepped inside, though, she was neither irritated nor impressed. The place was lit dimly, small, and it smelled of breakfast and overused cologne. No one within would know the name Miranda Priestly, and she was _dead_ sure they'd never even _seen_ an issue of _Runway_ in their lives. All was safe, and Miranda was still trying to keep herself from falling into the hooded sweatshirt. It felt like she was floating in a 100% cotton abyss. Her scowl was affixed to her lips.

"I am here under the reservation for—"

"_Miranda!"_

There they were. Oh yes, Andy's warm, bright, soft, deadly chocolate eyes. They weren't precisely excited—in fact, they seemed ultimately irritated. Had she done something wrong? Or had this…less-than-willing visit angered the unsinkable Andrea Sachs?

Clutching her black _Chanel_ purse a bit tighter to ward off the stench of _youth_ and _Burberry_, she listened as the waiter spoke, "Allow me to show you to your table, Miss."

Miranda's collected expression didn't waver as she took a seat across from the brunette. Her lips pinched together into a calm line, but Andy's face wasn't precisely amused.

"What do you _want,_ Miranda?" Andy hissed, leaning forward enough to allow the older to hear. Miranda could only think _How droll, she's upset._

Round one. Begin.


End file.
